


Operation Daybreak

by mistyblues



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, BAMF Lucy Heartfilia, F/M, Gen, also, graylu squad where you at, take a shot for every em dash, this brot3 deserves more love dammit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyblues/pseuds/mistyblues
Summary: As the most promising rookie of Magnolia's 99th Precinct, Gray Fullbuster is hardly thrilled to be stuck babysitting the mouthiest perp in the city. But when an open-and-shut case unearths hints of something far more sinister... an unlikely truce might be what it takes to save the day.3/12/2020 - BEING RE-WRITTEN.
Relationships: Cana Alberona & Gray Fullbuster & Loke, Cana Alberona & Lucy Heartfilia, Gray Fullbuster/Lucy Heartfilia, Lucy Heartfilia & Loke
Comments: 24
Kudos: 26





	1. Mid-Morning Arrest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What has two thumbs, three stories on hiatus, and the casual hubris to start a new one? This guy.
> 
> Many thank-yous to Brooklyn Nine-Nine for the jargon-y bits; the netizens of Quora for answering my plebeian questions on Cop Stuff; Trollshima for creating the incomparably dope Lucy Heartfilia; and, most of all, my patient beta. Mon, you're a star. Now, without further ado...

**11:32 AM  
Downtown Magnolia**

"So... I was reading this, ah, scientific journal the other day—"

"Just say Playboy."

"—and jigging one's leg up and down like that is considered a symptom of sexual frustration."

There are moments in life that don't merit a response. Gray elects this as one.

"Really!” insists his partner, undeterred. “Since you're determined to achieve monkhood, all that pent-up energy has to go somewhere."

"What," he asks, with long-suffering resignation, "is your compulsive need to get me laid?"

Loke tuts as he noses the cruiser down a street notorious for its assortment of petty crime. "It's not just the sex! Humans are social beings, Gray. We need companionship..." he trails off, as they survey the surroundings.

There are the usual hobos hissing hungover slurs at the sunlight, vendors touting the merits of knockoff Rolexes to hapless passersby, some shifty-eyed characters that reek of past—and potentially future—delinquency. Then, among the throng of Saturday shoppers, Gray spots a familiar figure slipping his hand into a pigtailed girl's coat pocket.

"Oi, Romeo!" he calls out, and the boy freezes.

As the car rolls up next to him, he makes a reluctant show of tapping the girl on the shoulder. When she recognises the wallet he's holding out, her mouth drops open.

"Miss, would you like to press charges?" asks Gray gently.

The girl glances at Romeo whose sulky gaze is trained on his grubby sneakers. "No." When his head jerks up, she offers a sweet smile and he reddens, mumbling out a _s-sorry_ that sounds halfway sincere for once.

"You're in luck, young man," says Loke. "Now walk her to the end of the street so none of your buddies try to pull one like that."

"T-That's okay! I wouldn't want to trouble—" the girl falters as Romeo grumbles under his breath, but then he beckons his head.

"C'mon, uh..."

"Wendy," she says, shyly, as they begin walking.

"Thanks for, ya know..." he clears his throat, "Wendy."

It's an admittedly wholesome sight that Loke ruins with a smug flourish of his arm, "See? _Companionship_."

* * *

**12:04 PM**

"Let's hit up a bar tonight, eh?" Half an hour later, their patrol is winding to a close but Loke's wheedling is just getting started. "You, me and Cana... it's been a while!"

Gray considers relenting— _god knows I could use a drink, now that Lyon's pulled ahead in arrest numbers_ —but then, he recalls the last time they all went out. He'd admitted, in a moment of alcohol-fuelled weakness, that their waitress was attractive, and the self-appointed pimps had left his number under the tip. What followed were a few months of dating that, well... "Do I need to remind why it's been a while?"

Loke sighs gustily. "I still don't get why you broke up..."

As the manor-houses they're passing by treble in size, Gray checks the speedometer.

"Crazy about you, never a disagreeable word, rocking bo—"

“Slow down."

“It’s two over the limit!”

“Exactly. Neighbourhood like this, they’ll probably call _us_ on us.”

With an air of great charity, Loke allows the needle to inch down to thirty. "Anyway, what was the deal with Juvia, _t_ _oo perfect_?"

Gray settles more comfortably in his seat, away from the dangled bait. Loke's fishing trips like to take their time, and his back could use the lumbar support. 

"You know what _I_ think?"

Reaching for his canteen, he takes a swig.

"You, my friend, are afraid of commitment."

Water promptly goes down the wrong way.

"Yeah, yeah," Loke concedes with hearty grace. "But my bachelorhood is a choice, while the way you look at Alzack and Bisca, says otherwise. You know somebody made a move there, right?"

This time, Gray's choking isn't from laughter.

"Think I didn't catch last week, hm? You mooning over them doing paperwork together?" says the bastard.

"All I've noticed is they're not exactly one of your randy flings," he fires back, with all the unflappability one can manage after having hacked up a lung.

Loke appraises him for a moment— _too damn long to look away_ _from the road_ —before turning around with a waggle of eyebrows. "Jealous? Maybe the real reason you won't date is because you're waiting for _me_ , Gray-sama."

"Ah, yes," says Gray, catching the olive branch but unable to resist a dig, "ever since you walked into Profiling twenty minutes late, whispering, _This is Intro to Criminology, right?_ I've wanted you." A pause, then he adds, "Is it just me or is Cana's nose bleeding?"

Loke sniffs the air a few times. "No, I smell it too."

And, with that, balance is restored. As they drive around, they chat about how Wakaba dozed off with a cigarette and nearly set the couch in the break room on fire; whether Nab will ever get around to picking a case from the misdemeanours boa—

"Calling all...nits!" the police scanner nestled in the cup-holder crackles to life. "...spond wi...location."

"Unit 3, Apple Alcove."

"Unit 12, Lemon Lane."

"Unit 7," says Gray, pressing the Talk button, "Apricot Avenue."

"Unit 24, Ki—"

"Unit 7...perp in civilian custody...you are the closest!" barks the voice of their Captain; Gray and Loke exchange bemused looks. Isn't she supposed to be at One Police Plaza? "...ckup point, the Everlue Mansion. The Duke called my cell to report a 245...not the most _decorous_ of language..." A strained pause. "...prehend the perpetrator and I will handle the re—Deputy Chief Fernandes! What am I do..hind the pillar? Erm—" The line goes dead.

"245?" repeats Gray. "What kind of idiot attacks a politician in his own house?"

Loke shrugs, deftly reversing the car. "Probably the same kind that chews the Titania out during her own award ceremony."

* * *

**12:23 PM  
The Everlue Mansion**

"This way please," greets a pink-haired maid, "Master is in the study."

As they pass a six-foot golden statue of a moustachioed man draped across a throne, Gray tries to fathom how loaded someone has to be to decide _that's_ a good investment _._ Meanwhile, Loke is eyeing up the skimpily-clad girls wrought in silver around the man, feeding him ruby-grapes.

"Impeccable craftsmanship, yes?" says the maid, the syllables of her words coloured with a strangely apathetic lilt. Gray cannot, for the life of him, tell if it's sincerity or sarcasm.

Loke shakes himself out of his stupor. "Everything is technically proficient, I suppose, but it's lacking in _hea—_ "

Gray takes over before he can warm to the topic. "Was there any trouble subduing the assailant?"

"No, the reporter surrendered immediately," says the maid.

"Reporter?"

"The one come to interview Master about his new boo—"

"What took you so long?" demands a waspish voice, as they enter the cavernous study.

Oh, it's Moustache—except he's half the height that was advertised and has a lumpy bandage over his nose. Hovering at his heels, like an anxious shadow, is a younger fellow.

"What was the point of contacting that woman directly if you dimwits dawdle in at your leisure?" demands Everlue. "I have half a mind to call her again—report this incompetence. What are your badge numbers?"

A muscle tightens in Gray's jaw but his face remains a carefully blank slate. They run into this type every now and then (entitled pricks with more money than manners) and he knows to bite his tongue. They've all had the training. But, _hell_ , it's just been—

"Four and a half minutes... You know, for a man who needs a stepladder to enter the human sightline, your standards are certainly tall."

Gray startles at the new voice.

There, in the corner with the fireplace, is a young woman bound to a chair. Everything about her big, doe eyes—trained on the orange light flickering off the arm-rest—spells the opposite of trouble. It's almost enough to miss the dried blood crusting her knuckles.

"Shut your mouth!" snarls Everlue. "Once I'm through with your editor, only place for it's a whorehouse."

 _Jesus_...

The younger fellow intervenes with a "C-Calm down, Everlue-sama!" that goes thoroughly unheeded. But it does draw Gray's attention to the tense set of his shoulders under the ill-fitting suit, the permanent creases etched into his thirty-something face, the livid handprint against his olive skin. "What's that?"

"Oh!" The man's hand flies to his cheek. "I—um—"

"It was her," says Everlue, and there's something ominous in the sudden quiet of his tone. "To not only injure me, but my assistant as well... unpardonable."

The silence stretches, taut like a wire, until broken by Loke's assurances that Captain Scarlet would be _personally_ handling this case, so if they could trouble the Duke—and his staff—for a statement? Perhaps, somewhere in private?

As the perp watches them shuffle downstairs with a strange expression, Gray takes the opportunity for a quick sizing-up: sleek ponytail with not a hair out of place, neatly-ironed blouse and immaculate pencil skirt, fancy shoes crossed primly at the ankles. All the makings of someone who waits for the green light at an empty intersection. _What got this type all rile_ —

"Yes, the Jimmy Choos are last season but it's hardly gallant to stare."

First, the Alzack and Bisca nonsense. Now this. Gray strides across the room to kneel at the chair. "And aggravated assault is, what, the pinnacle of gallantry?"

"Oh, come on. Didn't _you_ didn't want to deck him?"

Twice, but he's not volunteering that intel to a well-dressed ruffian. "I hope it's worth the jail-time."

"That would be a problem if I was going to jail."

He looks up from unravelling her bonds. "Lady, you do know what you've do—"

"Lucy."

"What?"

"My name is Lucy."

"I'm not chummy with soon-to-be felons."

"Four letters—starts with an L, ends with a Y. What's the difference?"

Under other circumstances, Gray thinks he might even admire the gall. But the circumstances being what they are, he pulls out a pair of handcuffs instead. "No funny business, alright? There's a taser in my pocket I'm _ungallant_ enough to use."

"Don't worry, I won't mess up your pretty face..." the glance she throws over her shoulder is all amusement, "Officer Fullbuster."

* * *

**12:38 PM**

Gray is idly contemplating an alternate universe where he'd left his name tag at home, along with My-Name-Is-Lucy re-tied to the chair, when Loke returns to burst his bubble.

"Done," he sags in relief. "Good to go?"

Halfway down the winding staircase they spot the assistant and maid from before, in the middle of a hushed conversation.

"—my sake, Virgo! I should've said something..."

"Kaby-san, it's not your fault. Master did not leave much ch—"

Both still at the sound of their approach. When Virgo turns, she's as impassive as ever; but Kaby fidgets, eyes darting everywhere except at his attacker. _Textbook intimidation_ , figures Gray, turning to narrow his own at the perp. His grip around her arm slackens. For an instant, he sees the kid who forgave Romeo. Her gaze gentle in its knowingness, steady in its lack of judgement. Then he blinks and it's Lucy again and— _oh_. When he turns back to a wretched-looking Kaby, he already knows the answer.

"Apologies," Virgo steps forward briskly, "allow me to show you out."

It's when they reach the foyer with its sprawling statuary, that Lu—the perp regains some of her spirit. "And to whom do we owe _this_ masterpiece..."

It's a mutter meant more for herself, but Virgo replies all the same. "Reedus Jonah."

Loke makes the same noise of wounded outrage as Ultear's tabby getting declawed. " _The_ up-and-coming sculptor?"

"Yes."

"I caught his exhibit at the Met last week." The perp turns to Loke, "The Divine Feminine, right?"

At the vehement nodding, his glasses slide down. "This has none of Jonah's elegance or intricate chisel-work!" Pushing them back up, he scans the marble plinth. "Where's his signature?"

"Reedus-san did not wish to sign... personal commissions."

"I'll say." The perp eyes statue-Everlue angling his mouth for a grape like an oversized pet rat. "To go from sculpting the Athena Parthenos to this..."

"Might need some anonymity," Gray finds himself finishing.

After a long beat, the perp starts to giggle—a bright, silly sound hardly befitting an adult—and, to his burgeoning alarm, the corner of his mouth twitches. When Loke joins in with a huff and even Virgo's face loses some of its straightness, he quickly herds them to the entrance before the rest of his dignity can take flight.

When they step outside, the maid pauses with a hand on the doorframe, something akin to regret in her features. "You... you take care, Miss."

"Oh!" Lucy's eyes crinkle into warm brown. "You too, Virgo-san."

 _Idiot_ , remembers Gray, but this time... rings different.


	2. Post-Noon Booking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess whose lazy ass is back? Updates will be once a month because I'm fashionably late to everything, including my own period. Also, in the interest of figuring out this Have A Plot hogwash, old chapters will be concurrently edited as new ones are posted. Nothing major; just axing some flotsam and adding some jetsam that (hopefully) makes for a better reading experience.
> 
> This one's dedicated to Mon because betas who keep it 100 should be called alphas.

**1:08 PM** **  
Magnolia's 99th Precinct**

"—even own one of his earliest pieces! Back when they were affordable on a cop's salary, ah, those were the days... Anyway, would you like to see it?"

Jabbing the button for the fourth floor, Gray exhales the tiniest, most controlled sigh. Knowing that his friend rarely got to hold a two-sided conversation on the finer points of baroque sculpture with him or Cana, he'd turned a deaf ear throughout the drive. But the optics of fraternising with a criminal inside a _police station_ should be obvious to anyone.

"Oh, you've got a picture?"

Well, almost anyone.

"No, I keep it on my desk as a reminder that there's artistry left in the world." Knowing him, it's only half-kidding.

"After that promo," laughs the perp, "colour me interested."

Crap, did she have to use that word? Now Loke has a glint in his eye that will almost certainly get them both suspended. Mercifully, the doors of the cramped elevator ding open and they enter the bullpen.

Jet peers over a stack of files and Droy waves his meatball sub in greeting. (A reflexive glance as they pass the administrative desk with its chipped maneki-neko—empty.) But among the bustle of everyday precinct activity—witness testimonies being given by slightly hysterical civilians, co-workers attempting to coax a flurry of last-minute reports out of the half-dead printer, colourful threats and more colourful gestures from behind the bars of the holding cell—their arrival goes largely unnoticed. _Good_. Curious questions follow arrestees that stick out like a shiny thumb among the sore ones they usually bring in.

As they reach their shared workstation, Loke starts going on about how these ancient PCs take forever to boot up, you know, and in the meanti—

"Take a seat," says Gray, steering the perp to his sleeping computer. With a click of the mouse, all statue-related detours are averted. "Name?"

"I already told you."

"She already told you."

Ignoring the petulance rolling off his partner, he pulls up the form. " _Last_ name."

"...Heartfilia."

His typing stops.

"Of the Heartfilia Konzern?!" goggles Loke.

The perp offers a vacant shrug.

Gray leans back in his chair as the last piece of the puzzle slots into place. "And that gives you the right to go around breaking noses?"

She stiffens. "I did it _because_ —"

"He slapped his assistant," finishes Gray, dispassionately. A sharp intake of breath from the left tells him that Loke is remembering the mark of five fingers on Kaby's face—too stubby to be their perp's. "You realise your little stunt probably made things worse for the people who have to work under Everlue, right?"

There it is—a flash of uncertainty.

"But heiresses of multimillion dollar corporations don't have to worry about all that when daddy has the best lawyers on retainer..."

Her pupils finally constrict, the irises darkening with something not unlike hosti—

"G-Gray!" rebukes Loke.

And, just as suddenly, the shutters fall. When she gestures to the computer with a flick of her chin, her eyes are wooden. "What's the next question?"

As the blanks in the report are gradually filled, he learns the following about Lucy Heartfilia: barely a year younger than his twenty-four, fresh out of a job at the most prestigious magazine in the city, and damn good at pretending an arrest-in-progress is tea-time with the Queen.

When he asks for a rundown of Everlue's statement, Loke flips open his notebook with a grimace. "He insists that his assistant's assault was part of it, of course."

 _It's his word against hers but there's a chance if..._ "Any inconsistencies in Kaby's statement?"

The decisive no that rings out is Lucy's.

"Please don't grill him," she implores Loke, turning to Gray with a clipped, "this isn't his fault."

 _Even now_ , he thinks; weighing the consequences of reaching out to shake her, just a little. Because, _even now_.

As always, returning to work wins out.

* * *

**1:33 PM  
Processing, 2nd floor**

"Was that really necessary?"

"What?"

"Goading her like that. Given Lucy's, ah, special circumstances... it's in poor taste, don't you think?"

"This, coming from the guy who's spent the past minute checking out her legs."

Loke has the grace to flush. Ever since the revelation about _Lucy's special circumstances_ , the sheen in his eyes had taken on a borderline worshipful quality that was, frankly, no better than the ogling.

Gray shoves his phone into Loke's hands. "Read."

It's a simple web search for Duke Dickwad, pulled up in the elevator on the way down: _Everlue III (born June 30, 1964) is the Director of the Fioran Ministry of Immigration (2008 – present). One of the last remaining noble families in the country, his grandfather, Everlue I, was awarded Dukedom of Shirotsume Town (including ownership of Kakougan Quarry) in 1895._

"Picked one hell of an enemy to make," says Gray, as the last mugshot is snapped. He'd half-expected her to smile, so, naturally she doesn't. But the line of her profile is unfurrowed, on the cusp of dismissive.

Loke winces, handing the phone back. "Well, yeah—but—"

"I'll do the prints." He pushes off the dull, white wall as the perp steps away from the blue-painted one behind her. "You bag the evidence."

He's running the scanner through a thorough check— _first time Captain's personally assigned us something_ —when they return.

"All washed-up," says Loke, with the blithe cheeriness of someone to whom everything comes in black and white.

 _I don't have that luxury_ , thinks Gray, gaze dropping to the perp's hand—red newly-scrubbed off to reveal telltale purple underneath. The crisscross of broken capillaries under swollen skin looks even starker in the fluorescent lighting. When the prints have been entered and incriminating bruises photographed, they make a pitstop at Forensics. As Loke hands over the swabbed blood to a lab tech, Gray ducks into the industrial freezer at the back.

"Here."

She barely spares the offering a glance. "Keep your pity to yourself."

His fingers clench around the ice pack. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm not getting written up for mistreatment because you have an ego."

"Don't worry," she looks up at him and it's utter irreverence, "I won't send my daddy's lawyers after you."

It's Loke who has to break up the stalemate.

* * *

**2:02 PM**

The elevator ride back upstairs could pass for satire.

Loke inserts himself bodily as a shield between them; a fairytale knight defending the innocent princess from the evil wizard.

 _Am I the only one here_ , Gray asks himself, _who hasn't lost their damn marbles?_ When they file out, the floor is significantly less crowded—half the crew assigned to that drug-bust on Keylime and 5th—leaving an unhindered view of his desk. Perched on top, with a magazine and a mug of something dubious, is a visible _yes_.

"Oh, unclutch your pearls," says Cana, as their footsteps draw near, "it's coffee."

"And the flask at your hip?" Loke clutches, on behalf of them both.

"...Irish coffee."

"Cana, that's a double shot of whiskey!"

"Hey, when a bitch has to spend her Saturday _collating_ , your green sludge isn't gonna cu—" glancing up from the page, she spots the perp; then whistles long and low. "Um, hello, dibs on conjugal visits."

Gray opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again with strongly-worded resol—

"I thought you guys were supposed to deter crime," the object of solicitation slowly returns a once-over of her own, "not _incentivise_ it."

There's a pause. Then, Cana cackles like a witch from the same fairytale and Loke looks torn between sapphic delight and masculine misery, and Lucy is giggling like a child again. Except, this time, he hears the grating abandon.

It's a merry old moment, broken only by a noisy rumble. The perp digs her hands into her middle, like it can take back the sound. "Erm. Pardon me."

The chagrin in her features is for all the wrong reasons.

"'S time for lunch anyway!" Clapping her on the back, Cana turns to him. "Can we undo the cuffs or what?"

"We're not suppo—"

"Sarge is out on the raid and Titania won't be back for a while," reminds Loke, rummaging through his satchel to pull out a large box.

Cana eyes it warily. "Whatcha' got there... buddy?"

"Mediterranean salad with an egg white omelette," says Loke, grinning wickedly as she wilts. "Lucy, you're not allergic to chickpeas, are you?"

"I—no, but—your lunch, Officer Celeste! I can't—"

"Nonsense, I always bring plenty to share with"—("more like force-fee—ow!")—"dear friends."

As the scent of roasted bell peppers and feta cheese wafts out, the perp's stomach makes a few more protests before she grins sheepishly. "Sorry, it's sensing this is the last chance for a home-cooked meal before gruel thrice a day."

Perhaps it's the cavalier attitude or utter lack of self-preservation; or, perhaps, the fact that the first time she acknowledges her future happens to be a mix of both.

Regardless, the last thread of Gray's patience _snaps_.

"Did you think you could flash a smile," he starts, deathly quiet, "make a few quips, and worm your way out of this?"

The mirth fades from her face.

"That jackass has connections in every courthouse. Can your trust fund compete with that?"

She meets his gaze, defiant.

"A minimum of one whole year in prison..." He steps towards her. "That's the price of attacking a government bigwig."

"H-He would've hit him again. I had to do something."

"Like coming _here_." Shaking off Loke's placatory hand, he takes another step. "While patting yourself on the back, did you stop to consider why we exist?"

"I was _there_. I had to do something!"

The _don't you understand_ is as good as said. It's because he _does_ that there's no room for coddling. "Whatever point you thought were proving, the law isn't any kinder on bleeding-hearted idiots playing vigilante." The disdain in his voice is enough to frost glass. "It was never your call to make."

When she flinches away, the prickle of unease is buried under a surge of grim satisfaction. An appropriate reaction has been long-overd—

For the second time today, her eyes blaze to life.

"Then whose was it?" she demands. "You knew and did nothing."

"We need an official complaint to take action. Unlike you, we don't get to wave our batons around and deal with the consequences later."

"You don't need me to tell you why Kaby-san was not in the position to complain." Now it's she who steps forward. "And you had the nerve to preach about the people working under him..."

"Do you think I was happy about it?" he bristles. "It's protocol!"

"Do you put that on your Christmas cards? _Magnolia's finest: we're not happy about it, but hey, it's protocol._ " Another step. "Have the brass to call it what it is – wilful negligence."

When he speaks again his voice is rough. "Listen, it's easy—telling me how to do my job—life isn't—"

The Lucy who interrupts is the one whose porcelain doll fist swung back in an arc, slamming into Everlue's face, shattering the cartilage beneath. "What _is_ your job?" The contempt in her voice is enough to scorch grass. "Why did you become a cop, Officer Fullbuster?"

Gray reels back. How can you be a foot away from someone while oceans apart? He swallows, opens his furious mouth to say—

"Pause." A vise-grip latches around his forearm.

"What the—Cana—let me go!"

"Pause," she repeats flatly, shooting Loke a nod. After a brief and ultimately useless scuffle, Gray allows himself to be dragged away.

Truth be told, he had not the foggiest clue what he was going to say.


End file.
